Your War
by Carpe Vitam
Summary: There’s a war drum sounding in you. It isn’t violent, this drum. There’s no anger in its rhythm, or aggression. But it’s fierce and dedicated.


_I admit, it's a bit difficult to follow. But it's in progress. Try to enjoy._

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He admitted that he didn't fully understand. He probably never would either. There was a level of bitterness one had to reach in order to see true loyalty in another, and never in his life would he reach that level, because he was one of the few truly loyal individuals in this world.

He tried to understand, which was basically all he could do, and he got it… well, mostly. But it wasn't really his fault though. Honestly, the drum? Worse yet, the drummer boy? It just hurt, that was all. In the middle of battle, surrounded by wounded and dying men, when his sword was knocked from his hand and he was looking around desperately for a weapon, something, anything, a wounded man gave him all he had: the drum. He thanked the man silently, then cursed him immediately after when he realized what he was holding. He did a double take.

The drum? What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Obviously he discarded it and armed himself properly as soon as he could, but Robin still loved to tell the story on slow nights. And the gang laughed and Robin laughed and helaughed but he never really enjoyed the story. He never complained though, occasionally he even started the story himself, because it made them laugh, and that was more important to him than feeling sorry for himself. Since... well since everything pretty much, it got pretty intense at the camp pretty easily, and once in awhile it was good to get away from that. So he made them laugh or at the very least smile, even for a short while.

But it did bother him. He never understood really why it was so funny, he just knew that it was. For whatever reason the fact that when he needed to defend himself most, all he could find was a bloody drum. If he were one to read symbols he could probably make sense of it, but he couldn't. And it was something that kept him up some nights. Very rarely of course, but often enough since Allan had come back that he was aware of it. It wasn't serious. He just... wondered about it. Sometimes.

And tonight was one of those nights where he just couldn't sleep. Allan, dealing with his own demons, was up as usual, sitting on a log outside near a dying fire that he kept poking at with a small branch that looked like it had recently been broken. So instead of his usual pacing and animated mumbling, he just sat down beside Allan. For awhile, neither spoke, neither being surprised to see the other out and finding no reason why they shouldn't dismiss formalities.

'Oh... I didn't realize anyone else was... how odd to see you here.'

'I... I couldn't sleep.'

' Neither could I, mind if I join you?'

'Please do.'

Etc.

So they sat in silence, staring at the fire, Allan occasionally encouraging it when it appeared to be failing in confidence. An owl hooted in the distance. Allan grunted.

"Can't remember the last time I heard an owl in Sherwood," he said. "Or at all for the matter," he added after a moments contemplation. His companion listened as well. "...Do they always sound like that?" he asked.

"Where are you even from Allan?" was the impulsive reply. Allan laughed, his own impulsive reply.

"I've just been somewhere else for a long time, s'all," he said with a shrug. "I haven't really paid much attention to things."

"I know what you mean..." came the quiet reply. Both men had spoken what were once truthful sentences, but it had been a very long time since they hadn't paid attention, since they hadn't heard unspoken sentences amongst the gang, seen unseen gestures. There was very little either man missed.

"Can I..." Allan started to say, but he stopped himself, reconsidering.

"...Can you... what?"

"I've just been wondering, about that story you and Robin always tell, with the drum..."

"I've been wondering about that meself. Why did I get a bloody drum? What unholy joke was god playing on me that day?"

"... So you haven't... you haven't read the symbolism, or anything?"

"Of course I have- I mean no... no why would I be reading symbolism? God has a plan and all that... Have... have you read any symbolism?"

Allan was quiet for awhile, and to his insomniac friend, it seemed that all of Sherwood Forest was quiet as well. "I've never talked about my family, other than Tom of course. It's partly because all I remember about them was something I heard me grandad say once, about drums. War drums in particular."

"Is it also partly because your family is comprised of dishonest, backstabbing, menaces?"

"We're lovable though," Allan replied with a cheeky grin. He sobered quickly. "Grandad used to talk about a war drum in us all. He used to tell me that his drum and me dads drum were the same, and Tom too. Their drum used to beat in anger. When they fought, maybe Tom can be excluded, I don't know him as well as I thought I did," his voice was low and hollow, sort of sad. "But they fought because there was injustice in the world around them and they couldn't accept it, couldn't allow it. They were scared of losing their freedom, losing their lives, the ones they loved. Their war drum, me grandad used to say, beat in fear."

"... I've never fought injustice on my own,"

"Neither have I," Allan said, trying to encourage his friend. "And I always thought that whatever drum there was in me, it wasn't a war drum. And I was certainly not brave, like he was. Nor a fighter... like Robin..."

"How did you... well I suppose it _is_ obvious. Nonetheless, your little story isn't particularly helpful-"

"That's cos I'm not finished with my little story," Allan told him. "Are you going to let me finish? Because I think you need to hear this. I've seen you when Robin tells that story. I've seen you when you tell it. You laugh with us... but you're never really there. Because you think we're laughing _at_ you. We're really laughing though because otherwise we'd cry. You're better than us all. Grandad used to say it about me, but clearly you're better than me in particular... You haven't sold out your mates-"

"You know, I understand now-"

"Don't." Allan cut in. "This isn't about me. It just sounds like it us, but it pertains to you. When I first heard of the war, I never wanted to join up. I would've rather been forced to join, and even then I would've weaseled my way out... like I normally do. I was young, and scared. And when my grandad found out, he took me out to the fire late one night. We sat in silence for the longest time. And then he handed me a drum. He said, 'I don't want you to fight, but I want you to be a part of this.' Now I wasn't being funny, but I'da rather fought than be a drummer boy, and I told him as much. And he told me something nobody had ever told me before... he told me I was a fighter."

"But you didn't believe him?"

"I called him a liar. Stupid thing to do, by the way, when your grandad is going to war and is probably dead by now and you have no way saying anything more meaningful as the last thing he'll remember about you,"

"You couldn't have known,"

"I coulda guessed. That's not the point though. The point is this; you are the bravest, strongest, most loyal, determined, and faithful living creature that I have ever had the blessing to know, and anyone would be lucky to have known you if only for a few moments in time. Robin sees it but he won't tell you, everyone sees it but they won't tell you, because you'll never believe it. And maybe you won't believe me now when I tell you. But you need to hear it. Everyone needs to hear, just once in their life, that they are as good as they hope to be. It's called positive reinforcement, I heard it in me travels" he added quickly in response to his friends quizzical expression. "Would you like to hear what grandad said to me?"

"Will it be more helpful than the rest of the rubbish you've told me?"

"Don't make me hurt you," Allan waved the branch at him threateningly. His friend smiled and pushed it away.

"I would like to hear what your grandad told you, yes."

"Good..."

_There's a war drum sounding in you. It isn't violent, this drum. There's no anger in its rhythm, or aggression. But it's fierce and dedicated. It's a call to arms, to fight, to be passionate, to care. Your drum is loyal and unwavering. It beats steady and resounds with determination. This beat is faithful. It pounds through you, every muscle, every fiber, every bright and beautiful cell. You pulse with the rhythm of your war._

_Your battle is different than mine. You fight with love, every molecule of you and your drum rings with love, with heart. My war is tense, and frightened, and always anticipating danger. Your drum knows danger, accepts danger, accepts danger will happen. And it beats nonetheless. Your war drum is a faith drum. A love drum, were it not always fighting. Were it not a lone drum wanting so badly to beat freely in a world of unified, violent, fearful drums._

_Your drum pounds with peace. You fight in love, with love, for love. That is why I keep you aside. That is why I give you the drum. That is why you are the drummer boy. Your war drum is love and there is no battle we cannot win with a war drum that beats because it loves. Your war will save us all._

The two friends sat quietly again, only the sounds of the forest breaking the silence. Allan cleared his throat, collecting himself.

"Your war will save us all," his friend murmured, staring hard into the fire.

"You feel we keep you at a distance," Allan told him. "And we do... but it's because you are the only one of us who can handle the distance. You're the only one who will love us anyway. The only one who will fight for us, without us ever having to ask you to..."

The owl hooted again, and the fire cracked.

"You fight for love,"

"Because of love,"

"Yes. And that, is the only thing that will save us. Your war..." Allan said slowly. "Will save us all." And the echoed response that came from his friend was almost chilling, as if he believed that Allan was capable of something as great as well.

"...save us all."

The fire was dying down now, and his nighttime companion suddenly wanted nothing more than to sleep. He stood and stretched, looking down at Allan with new eyes.

"Goodnight Allan," he said quietly. "And thank you my friend."

Allan smiled, not looking away from the fire yet. "Don't mention it my friend."

Allan felt a hand fall on his shoulder and squeeze gently. "You're a good man. You're a fighter. And there's no anger in you, but there's dedication... and more importantly, there's love." Allan reached up and squeezed the hand back.

"Goodnight Much."

And he knew he sounded callous and uncaring, but he also knew that Much knew better now.

_

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_

Author's Note: This story was inspired by a short story by Ray Bradbury called The Drummer Boy at Shiloh. Re-watching the episode of Dr Who called The Sound of Drums I heard The Master say something along the lines of "Can't you hear it Mrs. Rook?... The drum beat...the drums are coming closer." I thought it was beautiful and I started to wonder what that drum would sound like and then of course the different drums that one would hear in accordance with a particular situation, more of the same. So I wrote this because of Bradbury (genius!), The Master, and Much, who appears cowardly and superficial but his profile is so much deeper and layered. And I feel that Allan's profile is much deeper than the writers of the show allow, so I abused that theory to a pretty serious extent and made him very insightful. Artistic freedom damn it!

_Which reminds me, I don't own any of these characters, legal mumbo jumbo, etc._


End file.
